The Innocence Mission
by Kittystitch
Summary: When a mission goes sideways, Garrison, Chief and Casino end up with a reluctant hostage.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This takes place not long after the events in "The Fog of War", but it's not necessary to read that one first (unless you want to, of course). For the full background on Garrison and his grandfather, read Dart53's compelling novella, "Believe". Thanks again, Dart53, for letting me borrow from your canon-perfect universe._

**THE INNOCENCE MISSION**

Chapter 1

Eight months ago, Garrison never would have believed that things could change so drastically. He still had nightmares about that first flight into occupied France, when his stomach had churned with the palpable tension on the plane, and he could almost taste the fear. Each man had handled it in his own way - Actor and Goniff challenged his command with uneasy humor; Casino struggled to remain aloof and nonchalant; Chief huddled, tense and still, chafing at the cuffs. And Wheeler held nothing back, adding layers of anger and hate on top of the fear. Eight months ago he'd had serious doubts about the wisdom of the whole crazy idea, and about his ability to stay in control of it.

Now he looked around him, as the small plane crossed from the Channel over the French countryside, and had to remind himself that these were the same men. Actor sat in the jump seat on his right, lost in a small book he'd smuggled onboard in a pocket. Chief slouched in the seat to his left, eyes closed and head resting against the back of the seat, one leg stretched into the narrow aisle, his hands relaxed on his thighs. Across the aisle, Casino and Goniff had a card game going on the seat between them. The loser would be the first one to jump. Goniff studied his cards and hummed some unrecognizable tune, until Chief kicked him with his outstretched boot. "No singin'."

"Just passin' the time, mate." Goniff continued to hum.

Garrison glanced over at the book Actor held in his lap. "What are you reading?"

"I found this tucked in a corner of the library." Actor closed the book and fingered the worn red leather. "Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, an 1892 edition. The man understood a great deal about war."

"It was a different war," Garrison sighed. "Maybe someone will write poetry about this one some day."

"Perhaps..."

"Coming up on your drop zone in five minutes, Lieutenant," the navigator called from the cockpit.

"Thank you, Sergeant."

"Ha!" Casino shouted triumphantly, tossing down his cards. "You lose! Goniff jumps first, Warden. For the hundredth time!"

"You gotta be cheatin', mate. I never lose this often." Goniff shrugged and resigned himself to his fate. "Well, the first one out's the first one down."

Garrison checked his own rigging, and watched his men do the same, confident and practiced in the routine. No hand cuffs, no coercion. So different from that first flight.

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He waited for the fourth chute to open before he jumped, and watched as they all landed close together, one after the other gathering up their silks. When he'd gotten his under control, he looked around and saw that they'd all come together in a tight group, and his heart skipped a beat. Goniff was on the ground at the middle of it.

He ran to join them, and knelt beside the prone pick pocket. "What happened?"

"I think his ankle is broken," Actor told him, as he tried slowly and carefully to remove Goniff's left boot. The tight lines around Goniff's eyes and mouth betrayed the obvious pain he was in, and he flinched as the boot slipped free. "Possibly in several places," Actor added.

"I'm sorry, Warden," Goniff apologized through clenched teeth. "I musta landed wrong."

"Jeez, how many times have you done this? How clumsy can you get?" Casino chided.

"It's alright, Casino. It happens. We have to get to cover. Do you think you can stand?"

He slipped Goniff's left arm over his shoulder as Actor did the same on the other side, and they carefully lifted him. "Don't put any weight on it," Actor cautioned. "Just lean on us."

Garrison was about to tell Casino and Chief to finish gathering up the chutes, when he noticed they'd already done it, and the supply duffle was slung over Chief's shoulder. This was definitely a very different team than the one he'd jumped with eight months ago.

As they moved into the tree line, he could tell that Goniff was struggling bravely to move as fast as he could, but the pain in his ankle must've been excruciating. When they were well into the tree cover, they finally eased him down in the dry leaves against a fallen tree, and Actor turned his attention back to the quickly swelling ankle. "I can wrap it tightly, but it will need to be properly set," he told Garrison, concern edging his voice.

Chief had made quick work of one of the chutes, cutting the heavy silk into wide strips. Casino had picked up several straight, sturdy sticks, offering the selection to Actor, who chose the two strongest to use as splints.

Casino and Chief sat on the fallen tree, one protectively on each side of Goniff, and Casino laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy, you clumsy little limey. Actor'll fix you right up."

As Actor set to work on Goniff's ankle, Garrison considered his options aloud, hoping to distract his second story man from the pain. "Okay, here's the new plan. Goniff, once we get to the safe house, Andre can get you and Actor safely to Calais. Our contacts there can arrange for you to get back to England."

"But the mission..." Goniff started to protest, when a sudden tightening of the binding cut him off.

"Jeez, you lucky little stiff!" Casino admonished. "I knew you'd do just about anything to get out of a mission, but this takes the cake."

"As much as we'll miss you, Goniff, you're not going to be any help to us this time out," Garrison told him. "I'd rather have you back home and healing. This mission's a simple jail break. Casino, Chief and I can handle it."

"Is that the wisest idea?" Actor questioned.

"I need you to stay with him. He can't make it back by himself." He thought he actually saw disappointment in the two men's faces. Were they truly going to feel left out of risking their lives in an active war zone? They would never admit it, but he knew that on some level, they thrived on the thrill, the same way he did.

He slapped a hand on the con man's shoulder. "We're going to have to change your name to Doctor."

"That's Herr Doktor to you, Leutnant Gefängnisdirektor."

Garrison suppressed a laugh. "Come on Chief, you're with me."

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The little apartment behind the dressmaker's shop was a refuge they'd used before, situated on a quiet side street in the small town of La Capelle, only two miles from their drop zone. Andre, the local Resistance leader, had helped them carry Goniff the distance, and then arranged for one of his men in a delivery truck to drive him and Actor to Calais. Their contacts there would be able to radio London and arrange for a sub pick-up off the coast. Garrison felt a twinge of trepidation as he watched the truck pull away and disappear around the corner. Actor was cunning and resourceful, and Garrison was confident he could handle any problems along the way. But it still bothered him that he wouldn't know for sure if they made it safely home until he, himself, was back in England.

"C'mon, Warden, you look like a kid who's just lost his puppy." Casino slapped him on the shoulder. "They'll be fine."

"He was hurtin', Warden," Chief noted softly.

"I know." Garrison quickly pulled his thoughts together and refocused. "There's nothing we can do about it now. We still have a mission to complete."

Back in the relative comfort of their temporary home, Casino rummaged through the cabinets, taking inventory of the supplies, and Garrison settled at the small table with a hand-drawn map of the town.

"Okay, listen up. We're here. The jail's here." He traced the few short blocks with a finger. "Casino, you and I will go check it out while Chief finds a car. We'll hit it tonight."

"Who is this guy, anyway?" Casino wanted to know. "Why's he so important that we have to risk our lives to bust him out?"

"Henri is one of Andre's best operatives, and he has a lot of dangerous information in his head. We can't take a chance on him spilling any of it. And he's been a valuable asset. We owe it to him."

"You know him?" Chief asked.

"I ran a couple of missions with him last year. He pulled me out of a tough spot once."

"Then let's go get him." Casino sounded anxious to get started and get it over with.

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They'd brought the SS uniforms with them. Garrison often wondered if he might be turning into Oberst Brunner, he'd played the part so often. And Casino had become a very convincing German aide de camp, even without speaking or understanding much of the language. It was a con they had pulled off so many times that it was easy to become complacent about it, something he knew he had to guard against.

From what they'd been able to tell from their reconnaissance, the old jail facility was lightly guarded. If they couldn't convince the commanding officer to let them 'interrogate' the prisoner, they'd have a fight on their hands, an option Garrison dearly wanted to avoid while he was two men short. He would have preferred to have Actor's imposing, demanding presence as front man, but he also had confidence in Chief's and Casino's abilities. Failure was never an option.

While Chief waited next to the car he'd 'requisitioned', Garrison and Casino marched into the jail facility and demanded to see the officer in charge. Waving the forged papers Andre had provided, Garrison insisted on interrogating the traitorous resistance fighter they were holding. Major Koenig smiled politely, glanced briefly at the documents, and invited them to follow him down the hallway.

A red flag shot up in Garrison's mind. This was too easy. No argument. No questions. It was almost as if they'd been expected. His heart began to race. He sensed the same tension in Casino behind him, could almost feel the safe cracker's fists clench.

As they approached the cell, Garrison saw Henri peering from between the bars of the tiny window high in the door. He nodded imperceptibly at the man, and received only a small frown in return. Henri looked too relaxed, too comfortable.

The guard unlocked the cell door, and the Major motioned for them to step inside. There was no way he was doing that. He demanded to be shown to an interrogation room. Then he heard the Major's side arm slide from its holster, and the guard turned on them, the automatic rifle trained on Casino. Two more armed guards appeared from the far end of the hall.

Henri stepped from the cell, his eyes boring into Garrison's. "These are the men, Major. The spies who have been plaguing this area for months. The other three are probably outside."

"You lousy collaborator!" Casino lashed out before Garrison could stop him, and the closest guard struck him solidly on the back of the head with his rifle butt. Garrison caught him as he collapsed. The guard quickly disarmed them, and shoved them into the open cell. Garrison struggled to stay on his feet, holding onto Casino, as the door slammed shut behind them.

He gently eased Casino onto the lone cot, and heard him groan. He found the hard, bruised knot at the base of Casino's skull, and his hand came away with a smear of blood, where the rifle stock had split open a gash. He pulled one of his uniform gloves from his belt and pressed it against the wound, eliciting another groan.

"Take it easy, Casino."

"What the hell..." Casino tried to sit up, but failed. "This the same guy who saved your ass?" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah. The same guy." Garrison sat on the floor, leaning his shoulder against the cot. How could he have walked into a trap? What had he missed? There must've been some signal he'd overlooked, something that would have hinted at this. Why had Henri turned? Could he now even trust Andre? Or any of the Resistance fighters in the area? He thought of Actor and Goniff heading for the coast with one of Andre's men. But that was out of his control now - his priority was here.

Casino asked the next obvious question. "Where's Chief?"

"I'm hoping he got away. And that he knows better than to go to Andre for help."

"Think he'll be back for us?"

"Eventually."

"Well, maybe for me. I wouldn't blame him if he left you here to rot."

"Casino..."

"Sorry, Warden. Bad joke."

Garrison let out a long breath and tried to concentrate on their options. There were only two. Chief got them out, or they got themselves out. "Do you think you could spring the lock?"

"I can try." Casino managed to sit up, and with Garrison's help, got shakily to his feet. He pulled his small case of lock picks from his hip pocket, but when he saw the large, rusty lock mechanism on the heavy oak door, he knew it was probably futile. And even stretching as far as he could through the small barred window, he still was inches away from reaching down to the lock.

"Okay," Garrison conceded. "Plan B."

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Chief stood motionless next to the car, eyes and ears searching the darkness for every sound and movement. And a chill crawled up his spine. Something was off. He couldn't put a name to it, but he could feel it. Garrison and Casino weren't just going to stroll out of that jail with the Frenchman between them. That never happened. Something told him to get in the car and move it back to the end of the block. He kept the motor running, and from there he could still see the jail's front door, but also the alley's side entrance. He was reassured by the weight of the side arm at his hip, and the knife strapped to his forearm. For good measure, there was the submachine gun on the seat beside him.

They'd only been inside the building for a few minutes - not nearly long enough to persuade the authorities to let them see the prisoner - when two armed soldiers rushed out the front door, searching quickly up and down the street. Two more emerged from the alley entrance, weapons ready for anything that moved. That was all the cue he needed. He quickly threw the car into reverse, backed around the corner, and took off down the street. He was several miles away before they'd had time to find a vehicle and follow him.

What now? He sat in the darkness trying to clear his head. He couldn't go back to the safe house. No matter what Garrison said, he never trusted any of the resistance fighters. Whatever had happened inside that jail was their doing. It was the only way the Germans could have known to come looking for him outside on the street - someone told them he was there.

What did he know about the jail? It was an old two-story building with front and side entrances. There were at least four armed soldiers, along with a commanding officer, who would also be armed. Now that they knew of his existence and potential threat, they'd probably call in more guards. And there was the prisoner. Was he friend or enemy? Did he need rescuing or killing?

How long did he have to devise and execute a plan? If the Warden and Casino were still alive, how long before they were moved to a more secure location, before they were interrogated? He involuntarily gripped the steering wheel and drew in a ragged breath. The memory of his hands tied to the wall above his head, going cold and numb as the ropes cut his wrists, the sharp sting of the riding crop, the sadistic sergeant with the brass knuckles, the taste of blood, made his stomach clench. He couldn't let his mind go there now, and he couldn't let Casino...

To hell with a plan. It was just him and his weapons, and he'd take his chances, trusting his skill and his wits, the way he'd always done. The hardest part was waiting while his watch edged toward midnight. The later it was, the less likely they'd be prepared.

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He parked the car on a deserted street several blocks away, and checked his weapons. His side arm was fully loaded, and he had three extra magazines on his belt for the MP40. Although he knew it wasn't necessary, he double checked the spring mechanism on his knife, too. He wanted to lose the helmet - it only got in his way - but he knew the German uniform was good camouflage, and would keep the Krauts guessing long enough to give him an advantage.

Staying in the shadows, he walked the remaining distance to the alley beside the jail, and forced himself to observe quietly for another fifteen minutes, before making his move.

The side entrance was probably locked and guarded on the inside. The main entrance was the only way to go, so he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, readied his weapon, and walked in the front door like he owned the place.

A single guard, a corporal, sat dozing at the front desk. He startled awake as Chief approached. "Guten Abend. Kann ich Ihnen helfen?"

Chief aimed the machine gun directly at his chest. "Yeah, you can 'helfen'. Gimme the keys."

The soldier obviously didn't understand anything more than that he was being threatened, so Chief grabbed him by the arm, yanked him out of the chair, and pushed him toward the door leading back into the building, making sure the gun never lost its target.

As the door swung open, the corporal bolted for the interior, shouting warnings and diving for cover. Two additional soldiers at the far end of the row of cells pivoted, bringing their weapons with them, but their instant of hesitation was enough. Chief cut them both down with one machine gun burst, then turned it again on the corporal, who was crouched on the floor, reaching for his side arm. The man froze.

"The keys!" Chief demanded, grabbing the corporal's hand gun and flinging it down the hall.

"Chief?" He heard Garrison's voice from one of the cells. "Die Tasten."

Chief addressed the corporal again. "Yeah. What he said."

Never taking his eyes off the bore of the gun, the corporal reached into his pocket, pulled out the large ring of keys, and extended them toward Chief.

"Open the cell."

The corporal didn't need to understand the words to understand the meaning, and he did as he was told.

Casino was the first out, and to Chief's relief neither he nor the Warden looked any the worse for wear. Casino gathered up the weapons of the fallen soldiers, and handed a machine gun to Garrison.

"What do we do with him?" Chief asked, indicating the corporal still holding the key ring.

Before Garrison could answer, Casino swung the butt end of his weapon, striking the soldier on the side of the head, and he crumpled to the floor. "Payback," Casino growled.

"That works," Garrison agreed. "Now I have some payback of my own."

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When they were well away from town, Garrison took the time to check the gash on the back of Casino's head. It had bled profusely, like most head wounds. But once he'd gotten it cleaned up, he was relieved to see that it seemed superficial. And Casino claimed that the dizziness had subsided.

He filled Chief in as he guided the car farther south. He still couldn't comprehend why someone who had been a loyal and passionate Resistance fighter, someone who had risked his own life to save others, had suddenly turned. He'd thought himself a good judge of men, and it bothered him that he'd so badly misjudged Henri.

"Maybe they have somethin' on him," Chief suggested.

"Maybe," Garrison considered. "I can't imagine what they could hold over him that would make him betray his beliefs."

"Maybe he's just been a dirty, rotten turncoat all along, waitin' for the opportunity to do the most damage," Casino offered, idly loading and unloading his hand gun in the back seat.

"Maybe..." Garrison let the thought trail off. "But I need some answers."

"And when you get your answers, then what're we gonna do with him?" Casino wanted to know. "Just shoot him?"

"He comes with us."

"Oh great," Casino snorted. "We're gonna drag a belligerent Nazi lover half way across France with us. How's that gonna work?"

"We're SS, he's our prisoner. Easy as that."

Casino rolled his eyes. "Yeah, piece a cake."

Ignoring Casino's skepticism, Garrison turned his attention back to the countryside. "Turn right at the fork," he instructed Chief, "and pull over into the orchard. Henri's farm is about a half mile up the road."

The farmstead consisted of a cottage, a barn, and various animal enclosures. Fields of wheat and barley lay to the south, past a small stand of oaks. As they approached on foot, the area looked deserted. If there was a vehicle, it was hidden in the barn. There wasn't even any sign of livestock. Garrison motioned for Casino to flank left, and for Chief to go right, and he stayed behind the cover of a large maple tree at the front of the cottage.

"Henri?!" he called. Silence. He tried again. "Henri, we need to talk."

The reply was a gun shot, the bullet pinging off the tree above his head.

"Nooo...!" It was a long, anguished wail from inside the cottage. "You have to leave. They'll kill him."

"Kill who, Henri?"

"Denis. They have Denis. They have my son. Now they'll think I helped you escape."

So that was it. The Germans were holding a hostage. "Put the gun down. We can figure this out."

The door creaked slowly open, and Henri staggered out, his rifle still aimed at the tree. "I'm sorry, Craig," he sobbed. "They said they'd hurt him. I didn't know what to do." It was obvious Henri had been drinking, and the rifle wavered ominously.

"Just drop the gun, Henri. Tell me where they're holding him."

"They think I helped you get away. They've probably already killed him..." The rifle drooped.

Garrison took a cautious step from behind the tree, keeping his weapon aimed. "You don't know that. If you tell me where they have him, we can get him."

"No, it's too late, you've killed him..." The rifle swung up, the shot echoed through the woods. And Henri fell face first to the ground, a dark stain spreading across this back.

It took a second for it all to register. Casino stepped from behind the cottage, his hand gun now at his side. Chief came from the trees to his right. Garrison knelt beside the fallen Frenchman and felt for a pulse, then sat heavily in the dirt. "He's dead."

"He was going to kill you, Warden..."

"I know, Casino." He wiped his shirt sleeve across his eyes, an odd wave of anger and grief washing through him, and sheer frustration at the senselessness.

"Back home we call that suicide by cop." Chief stated, reaching a hand down to him. Garrison took it, letting Chief pull him to his feet.

"Let's get him buried. Then we'll figure out what to do about his son."

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Garrison knew they couldn't remain at Henri's farm for long. It was the first place the Germans would look, once the mayhem at the jail was discovered. While Chief stood watch, he and Casino quickly dug a shallow grave at the edge of the orchard and covered it as best they could with large rocks, to guard against scavengers.

"So where do we start looking for this kid?" Casino asked, shoving the last stone into place.

"Andre might know something," he guessed. Now that it was clear that Henri had acted alone, he felt a little more confident about the cell leader. "I didn't even know Henri had a son, so I have no idea what age boy we're talking about."

"How 'bout this age boy," Chief said, emerging from the woods, pushing a bedraggled teenager in front of him, a tight grip on the boy's collar. "He was hidin' in the barn."

The boy's dark hair was long and dirty, his clothes were torn, and he looked like he hadn't eaten in a week. He stood only a little taller than Chief's shoulder, and he might have been 12 or 20, Garrison couldn't tell. But he saw a mixture of fear and hate in the defiant blue eyes. "Êtes-vous Denis?"

"Je ne vous dis pas ne importe quoi!" the boy spat.

"Do you speak English?" he tried again.

The boy just glared at him, until Chief gave him a rough shake. "Answer the man!"

"Take it easy, Chief. He thinks we're SS."

"Where's my father?" he demanded.

"Denis, I'm sorry..."

For the first time, the boy saw the fresh grave and immediately understood. He walked slowly to it and stood staring down. "You killed him," he finally whispered.

"I didn't have a choice..."

Garrison held up a hand to silence Casino, and spoke softly. "Denis, he was drunk, and scared to death the Germans had killed you. He didn't know what he was doing."

The boy stared dumbly down at the pile of stones covering his father's grave. Garrison wanted to give him all the time in the world to grieve, but his gut told him the Germans were going to come down that road any minute. He stepped up quietly behind the boy. "I'm Craig Garrison. I was a friend of your father's. We were sent here to rescue him, and now we're going to rescue you. But we have to get out of here now."

"I don't need to be rescued!" Denis lunged for Casino's MP40, lying in the grass next to the grave, and swept it up, leveling it at them. "Major Koenig will probably give me a reward for recapturing you."

"Ah, c'mon, kid! The same Kraut that held you hostage?" Casino was incredulous, in spite of the weapon pointed at him.

"I wasn't a hostage. They were protecting me."

"Yeah, and I'm Santa Claus." In one swift motion, Casino swung out and snatched the gun from the kid's hands, and held it up for the others to see. It was unloaded, all the magazines still on Casino's belt.

Garrison could only give him a 'what the hell were you thinking?' look, and Casino shrugged. "I still have my hand gun."

"Yeah, well, hostage or not, you're coming with us." Garrison gathered up his jacket and cap, took the boy firmly by the arm, then turned to his men. "Let's get moving before company comes. And please try to keep your weapons loaded."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Casino rode shotgun while Chief drove through the quiet French countryside, over the smallest, worst roads available, sometimes no more than cow paths, avoiding any farms or towns. It was slow, rough going, but they only encountered the occasional old truck or farm wagon.

Garrison kept his eye on the boy sulking in the back seat next to him, glaring back with every ounce of defiance his slender body could muster. He realized that the kid's world had just been flipped upside down - he'd been held hostage by the Germans, seen his father killed, and now he was being kidnapped by three strangers in SS uniforms who claimed to be Americans. But he had to get him to talk. He had decisions to make.

"Do you have any relatives who could take care of you?"

Denis folded his arms more tightly across his skinny chest and hunkered lower into the seat. "I don't need to be taken care of."

"When was the last time you ate?"

"I'm not hungry."That was an obvious lie.

Casino reached into his jacket pocket, then turned and handed Garrison a napkin-wrapped bundle. "Found this at Henri's house," he offered.

Keeping his eye on the boy, Garrison unwrapped the small loaf of bread, tore a bit off, and put it into his mouth. "Well, if you're not, I am." He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then held the rest out to Denis. "Sure you don't want some?"

He could almost see the war going on in the boy's small frame. Finally the hunger won. Denis snatched the loaf from his hand and attacked it as if it were the last food on the planet.

"Did they hurt you?" he asked, as the boy devoured the bread.

"No, I told you. They were protecting me."

"From what?"

"From you! They said you'd kill me when you found out what my father did." It was difficult to understand him with his mouth full of bread.

"And what did your father do?"

Denis pushed himself into the seat corner, trying to get as far away from his interrogator as possible, probably thinking he'd already said too much.

"Did he tell the Germans about his Resistance cell?"

Denis stared out the window and tried to make himself even smaller.

"Denis, no matter what your father did, we're not going to hurt you."

Garrison tried to sound reassuring, but he really couldn't imagine what the boy was thinking. "We're taking you back to England with us. You can stay there until the war is over, then you can decide for yourself what you want to do." Garrison thought he saw terror in the blue eyes that scowled back at him.

"We ain't gonna make it in this heap." Chief caught his eye in the rearview mirror. "We're about out of gas."

"Beautiful!" Casino declared. "How much farther to Calais? About a thousand miles?"

"More like 25," Garrison corrected. "There's a river just past those trees to the right. Find a good place to hide the car. We'll follow the river as far as we can on foot until dark, then set up camp."

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They pushed the car into a dense thicket next to the river, and took from it anything they thought might be useful. They followed the river north, with Chief taking point, scouting well ahead. Casino followed his trail, and Garrison brought up the rear, behind the boy, watching him carefully. He had to be weak and tired, but Garrison knew he'd try to make a break for it if he found the chance. Although he hadn't yet decided if the kid would be a threat if left to his own devices in France, Garrison still felt he owed it to Henri to see his son to safety.

The boy was slowing down, dragging his feet, unable to keep up with Casino's steady pace, and then he stumbled and fell hard.

"Casino, hold up!" he shouted, and went to the boy, who was struggling to get back on his feet. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course," he spat. "I just tripped."

Casino had turned and started back, but Garrison waved him on. "Go get Chief. We'll set up camp here for the night. We could all use a breather."

"I'm fine!" Denis insisted.

"That's great. But it's getting dark. We aren't going to get much farther tonight anyway."

Closer to the river, the ground leveled out, making a perfect spot to set up a camp site. He handed Denis his canteen, hoping that getting him involved would make him feel less like a prisoner. "Go down to the river and fill this for me," he asked.

"I'm not one of your flunkies. Do it yourself."

Garrison suppressed a smile. "I know you're not, Denis. And Casino and Chief aren't either, so you'd better not let them hear you call them that. But I get your point. Would you please fill the canteen for me?"

Denis snatched it from his hand and stomped off down to the river. Garrison shook his head as he watched the boy go. He could vividly remember feeling that angry and powerless once, and the helplessness and despair that went with it. But he'd had no idea how to deal with it then, and he still didn't.

Chief and Casino made so little noise as they approached that they almost startled him. "Chiefy's been shoppin' again," Casino announced.

Chief held a good-sized rabbit by its hind feet, still dripping blood from its deadly encounter with the switchblade.

"Nice. Remind me to go camping with you more often."

Denis climbed up from the river bank with the full canteen, and his eyes widened at the sight of the dead rabbit. "How'd you get that?"

"Easy. Rabbits are stupid," Chief explained. "Wanna help clean him?"

"I know how to clean a rabbit," Denis spit defiantly.

"Great, kid. Go for it." Chief handed him the dead animal, and went about stripping off his gear and uniform jacket, setting up a spot for himself at the edge of the clearing.

"I'll need a knife." Suddenly Denis didn't sound so sure of himself.

Chief looked to Garrison for approval, and he nodded and shrugged. "He needs to pull his own weight if he wants to eat."

The blade snapped into Chief's hand and he impaled it into the dirt at Denis' feet. "Don't cut yourself."

Denis pulled the knife from the ground and turned it over in his hand critically, folding the blade in, then snapping it open again. "Where do you get knives like this?"

"Why? You want one?"

"Yeah!" The boy's eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning.

"Sorry, kid. That one's mine."

Casino grinned at the boy. "You don't wanna mess with Chief, kiddo. You try to take his blade, you'll end up minus a kidney."

"Enough, guys," Garrison finally intervened. "Let's get a fire started so we can roast our furry friend."

With the small spade from their equipment bag, Chief dug a shallow pit in the clearing Garrison had made, and Casino collected the driest of the fallen branches around the camp site. Garrison scrounged some of the flattest rocks he could find at the river's edge, and washed them in the flowing water. As he headed back up the short embankment, he saw Denis quietly sitting on the large boulder at the edge of the clearing, staring at the dead, bloody rabbit lying next to him.

"Need some help, son?"

"I'm not your son."

"Okay. But if we're going to eat tonight, you need to get started on that rabbit."

"I will." But he didn't sound particularly enthusiastic.

Garrison caught Chief's eye and nodded toward the boy.

"You probably cleaned chickens, right?" Chief asked, sitting down beside him. "Rabbits ain't that different." He took the knife from Denis' trembling hand and demonstrated the unpleasant process with practiced ease, as if he killed and dressed rabbits every day. As Denis looked on, he grew paler by the minute, but to his credit, he held it together, until Chief had produced a substantial but unrecognizable chunk of meat, free of skin and organs. "Go wash him in the creek," Chief finally instructed. "And clean this good, too," he added, handing Denis the switchblade.

A slightly greenish Denis complied silently.

Chief smiled up at his companions. "We can cook the heart, liver and kidneys, too, if y'all are interested."

"No thanks," Casino grimaced, going back to building the fire.

gg gg gg gg gg gg gg gg

Chief cooked the rabbit on a flat slab of rock he'd heated in the fire, and added a sauce made of crushed raspberries. Along with another couple of hands full of raspberries, and a second loaf of bread taken from Henri's, it was a satisfying meal. Exhausted from his ordeal, and with his stomach full for the first time in days, Denis had fallen asleep almost immediately, still sitting upright against a tree stump. Garrison eased him gently to the ground and covered him with the one blanket they'd found in the trunk of the car. And they let the fire die.

After taking the first watch, Chief had gotten a few hours of sleep, but he always woke before dawn. The sky would have been just brightening to the east if it hadn't been for the heavy cloud cover. Casino was curled up near the edge of the fire pit, and Denis hadn't stirred from beneath his blanket. Garrison was on the last watch, probably somewhere up near the road.

He stretched the cold stiffness out of his muscles, and his stomach growled. Breakfast was going to be leftover raspberries unless there were some fish in the river willing to sacrifice themselves. First he set to work restarting the fire before the weather moved in and made it impossible. He had a nice flame going and was adding the last of the substantial dry wood when Casino stirred. Denis was still dead to the world.

"Watch the kid," he told Casino. "I'm gonna catch some breakfast."

He stripped, waded out into the cold, clear water, and sank in over his head. Letting the gentle current wash away the dust and sweat of the last few days, he scrubbed his hands through his hair, and wondered when he had become so fond of the luxury of feeling clean.

Near the far bank he found a quiet cove, out of the main current, where several large trout rested. Taking careful aim, he speared a fat one with his first try - a good thing, because there wouldn't have been a second try, as the others scattered for open water.

As he waded back across the river with his catch impaled on of his knife, he could hear Casino up on the embankment, arguing with the boy. So much for a quiet morning.

"I don't care what you think. I'm not traveling another foot with you until you've had a bath!" Casino had a vice grip on Denis' arm, and was dragging him down the embankment, the boy trying unsuccessfully to pull free or at least land a solid blow on his captor.

"Let go of me, you goon! I don't have to do what you say!"

"Goon, huh? Here, Chief! Catch!" Casino easily lifted the boy off the ground and tossed him into the river. He surfaced immediately, spitting water and obscenities.

Casino, already shirtless, splashed in after him, grabbing him and yanking his shirt over his head. He shoved him under again, then soaked the shirt and rang it out. The boy came up shouting what were certainly French vulgarities directed at Casino's parentage. "I don't know what you're saying, kid, but if I had some soap, your mouth would be the first thing I'd wash out."

Trying to move away from Casino, Denis backed directly into Chief, and turned on him with the same verbal vehemence.

Chief tossed breakfast onto the bank and took Denis by the shoulders, turning him around and pushing him back toward the shore. "Cool off, kid. A bath never hurt no one."

"Let go of me!" Denis jerked out of Chief's grasp, yanked his shirt away from Casino, and scrambled for the shore. The water streaming off his emaciated back highlighted ugly raised welts running diagonally, shoulder to waist. Some were pale, others still pink, and some were fresh and scabbed.

Chief elbowed Casino, and motioned at the retreating boy.

"Oh man..." Casino groaned. "The Germans or his dad?"

Chief didn't want to think about it. His tormentors had been cunning enough not to leave many scars, but he could still feel the blood running down his sides, and the helpless rage that built with every lash.

"If I were a German patrol, you'd all be dead." No one had seen Garrison standing at the top of the embankment. "Do you think you could have made anymore noise?"

"Did you hear what he said to me?!" Casino shouted, dragging his attention away from Denis' scarred back, and following him ashore.

"I heard. And for the boy's safety, I won't translate."

Chief buried his nightmares, and grabbing his clothes and the fish, he followed Casino up the embankment. "We got time for breakfast?"

"Yeah, a quick one. A storm's moving in. It's not going to be a pleasant day."

gg gg gg gg gg gg gg gg

The rain began as they were finishing off the last of the fish, and their small fire sputtered out. They took the time to obliterate the camp, then continued the long trek northward, again with Chief scouting ahead, and Garrison bringing up the rear, behind Denis. They were drenched almost immediately, as the rain fell harder and steadier. It was a relatively warm day, but Garrison still felt the chill from his wet clothes. Denis didn't have an ounce of fat to spare, and Garrison could see him shivering as he tried to keep up Casino's pace.

He was just about to call a halt, and search for some kind of meager shelter, when he saw Chief coming back toward them through the trees. He swung the MP40 off his shoulder, anticipating trouble.

Chief swiped the rain out of his eyes with his sleeve. "There's a farm house up ahead about a half mile. Looks deserted, roof's half caved in. But it's dry."

It had originally been a three room structure, but the roof had fallen in over one of the small back rooms. Out-buildings were in worse shape, having collapsed decades ago. But the house's main structure was supported by a substantial stone fireplace in the front room, and although the rain dripped in through several leaks in the roof, it was still a good deal more shelter than he could have hoped for. There were a couple of straight-backed chairs and one large cushioned chair that mice had decimated for nesting material, a small table, and a ratty horse-hair mattress in one corner. There was even a good stack of dry firewood piled neatly next to the hearth, not nearly as rotten as he would have expected. He guessed that someone used this on a regular basis, possibly as a hunting cabin. He silently thanked their benefactor and promised to replace the firewood if he had a chance.

Chief and Casino returned from scouting the perimeter, dripping small puddles onto the floor. "Man, this place is the Waldorf! You must've pleased some god somewhere, Warden," Casino exclaimed, taking in all the amenities and stripping off his soaking jacket.

"Let's get a fire started and dry out. Unless the storm lets up, I don't think we can go any farther today."

"You feelin' alright, Warden?" Chief asked. "Pullin' up just 'cause of a little rain ain't usually your style."

Garrison looked down at Denis, who had collapsed next to the fireplace. "There's no need to push that hard. We won't be able to get away from Calais until the storm clears."

Denis' head snapped up. "You don't have to slow down because of me. I can keep up."

"Don't encourage him, kid," Casino warned. "If the Warden wants to slow down, we'll let him."

It took a while to get a good fire started, using the little kindling available, and the few dried leaves that had blown into a corner, but once it was going, it quickly heated the stones and radiated warmth into the room. They stripped off their wet jackets and hung them to dry on a length of rope Chief suspended from the ceiling in front of the hearth.

Scouting out the only other intact room, Casino discovered a stash of canned goods and a half-empty case of C-rations, probably obtained on the black market. With the shelter from the storm and the warmth of the fire, it almost felt like home. Even the sound of the rain on the roof was soft and comforting, probably triggering some long-forgotten childhood memory, Garrison decided. What god, indeed. His experience with such good fortune was that it usually turned very bad very quickly.

After a meal of C-rations heated over the fire, Casino cleared the cans, pulled the small table up to the hearth, and produced a deck of cards. "Know how to play poker, kid?"

"No."

"Wanna learn?"

"No."

"Suit yourself. I could teach you how to get rich quick."

As the three of them played five-card stud for match sticks, Garrison kept an eye on Denis, sitting motionless on the hearth. Although the boy tried to act disinterested, he'd been watching and listening closely, as they'd talked casually about their cards, the weather, their absent companions who were missing all the fun, what they'd be doing if they were back home at the mansion.

"The only thing that could make this any better would be that bottle of Glenfiddich you keep in your office, Warden." Casino grinned as he stacked his large collection of matches. "Wouldn't care to throw that into the pot, would you?"

"Not a chance."

Chief finally threw in his hand, his own supply of matches depleted. "Should know better than to play with Casino's deck." He took one of Casino's matches and stuck it in his mouth, then sat on the hearth next to Denis, leaning back against the warm stones and stretching his legs out in front of him.

"You're not real soldiers, are you?" It was the first time Denis had spoken in over an hour.

"Why do you say that?" Casino asked, shuffling the deck.

"You don't have real uniforms, you don't salute, or call him 'sir'."

"Well, he's a real soldier." Casino gestured at his commander sitting across from him. "First Lieutenant Craig Garrison, U.S. Army. Got the metals to prove it. But Chief and me, we..."

"They have special skills," Garrison cut him off. "We're an Allied commando unit."

"How do you get to be a commando?"

"It takes a lot of commitment, a lot of training..."

"And a lotta crazy," Chief added.

Denis gave this some careful consideration, then asked, "Can you show me how to throw that knife?"

"Why would you wanna know that?" Chief's eyes narrowed.

"Same as you, so I can defend myself..."

"Maybe when you're older."

"I'm old enough."

"How old are you, kid?" Casino sounded sincerely interested.

"Eighteen."

Casino snorted. "Yeah, and I'm the Pope. Really, how old are you?"

"Sixteen."

Casino raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Okay, fourteen. Almost. But I can use a gun."

"To shoot at tin cans."

"I could kill a man if I wanted."

Garrison interceded. "You won't need to throw a knife or shoot a man in England, I can guarantee it."

"You're not listening to me! I'm not going to England!"

"Well, you're not staying here, and I'm not arguing with you."

Denis sat quietly for a moment, then stretched his legs in front of him in a mirror of Chief's posture. Garrison smiled. Denis may have been trying to imitate Chief's relaxed pose, but he knew Chief was rarely relaxed.

"You're not going to win, you know," Denis finally stated.

"The war, you mean?" Garrison leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. "What makes you say that?"

"The Germans are ruthless, they have all the machinery, and they control everything. They'll eventually crush England, then they'll rule the world, make everything peaceful again."

"Who told you that?"

"My father."

"That the same father that beat the shit out of you?" Casino asked.

Denis leapt from the hearth and charged at Casino, small fists flailing. "Shut up! You don't know anything about my father. You killed him."

Casino easily caught his thin wrists. "I know, kid, I'm sorry..."

"Let go of me!"

"Take a look, Warden." Casino grabbed the boy's shirt tail and yanked it over his head, revealing the angry welts.

Denis jerked out of Casino's grip and retreated onto the mattress in the far corner, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his head in his arms. "I deserved it."

"What could you possibly have done to deserved that?" Garrison asked.

"I disobeyed. I deserved to be punished."

"That's not punishment, kid," Chief said. "That's torture."

"Just leave me alone..."

"Okay, guys, lay off. Chief, do a quick sweep of the perimeter. Then we'll get some rest."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

By the time Chief returned to the house, the weather had turned a lot nastier, the heavy rain slashing sideways in the strong winds. He ripped off his jacket, threw it over the makeshift clothesline, and ran his hand through his wet hair. "Don't look like it's gonna let up anytime soon."

He settled back against the hearth stones, letting the warmth soak into his back. Casino was opposite him, on the other side of the fire, looking half asleep. He could hear soft snoring coming from the direction of the mattress in the far corner. "The kid asleep?"

"Yeah. He doesn't have the stamina. This has got to be rough on him." Garrison reached down and pulled the blanket up around Denis' narrow shoulders, then moved the rodent-eaten chair closer to the fireplace. He gave a quick thought to sitting in it, but decided to sit on the floor and lean against it instead, one knee pulled up, with his arm resting across it.

"He's taken a liking to you." Casino wasn't asleep after all. "Or maybe it's just your toys."

"He does seem to look up to you, Chief." Garrison agreed. "You could be a positive influence on him."

"I ain't gonna wet nose some half-grown kid."

"Come on, Chief. There are a lot of things he could learn from you."

"Nothin' useful. You said it, Warden. He won't need to shoot or knife anybody in England."

"Don't sell yourself short. You have other skills."

Chief almost asked just what, exactly, the Lieutenant thought those other skills were, but decided better of it. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

"How old were you when you learned to be so deadly with that thing, anyway?" Casino asked.

"Older than him."

"Sometimes you have to grow up quick." Casino pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook a couple out and offered one to Garrison, then took one himself and lit both with a twig from the fire. "I hear Germany's drafting kids his age now, sending them to the Eastern Front. That kid probably couldn't even hold up a Schmeisser, much less hit anything with it."

Casino watched the smoke from both cigarettes curl through the air, then drift and mix with the fire's pungent smoke and disappear up the chimney. He reached to the pile of wood next to him and chose another large log, adding it carefully to the flames.

"Who was your first, Chief?" Casino finally asked.

"First what?"

"The first person you ever killed."

Chief wasn't at all sure he liked the direction of the conversation. "What's it to you?"

Casino took a long drag on his cigarette. "I dunno, just curious."

"Well don't be."

The wind was picking up, whistling in around the door and through the cracks in the walls. The rain hitting the side of the house sounded like small arms fire.

"Sammy Giancana."

"What?"

"The first guy I killed." Casino's voice had gotten quiet, as if he'd moved off into some other place. "He was one mean psycho sonofabitch. It was a hit. I was just the lookout, but I had a gun. You always had a gun. Somethin' went wrong, he almost got away. Came runnin' out of that door like a bat outta hell, scared the shit outta me. I pulled the trigger more by accident than anything else."

"How old were you?" Garrison asked.

"Thirteen." Casino finished his cigarette and flicked it into the fireplace. "Still have the nightmares sometimes."

"They never came after you for it?" Garrison didn't remember seeing it in Casino's prison file.

"Never found the body. You're not gonna tell anyone, are you, Warden?"

"What? And have them send my explosives expert back to Leavenworth? Your secret's safe with me."

"What about you, Lieutenant?"

"You already know the story." Garrison's cigarette joined Casino's in the fire.

"Your grandfather?"

He nodded.

"But I thought it turned out he didn't actually die."

"I thought he did. That's all that mattered."

"How old were you?"

"Thirteen."

The silence hung in the room like a shroud. The fire popped almost cheerfully, while the wind tore at the shutters and shingles. Chief could feel them watching him in the firelight.

"Reform school," he finally replied to the unasked question. "I just meant to cut him. Scare him. I missed." It was all there, seared into his memory like a garish page from a comic book. He tried hard not to relive the whole terrifying moment again, the other boys taunting him, the scream of pain, the wet, sticky blood spurting out over his hand...the guards slamming him against the wall.

"No charges were ever brought?" Garrison didn't remember seeing this in Chief's record, either.

"Nah, what's another homeless redskin? Just one less mouth to feed."

"How old were you?" Garrison asked.

"I don't remember."

"C'mon, how can you not remember how old you were?" Casino insisted.

"It's not like I ever had a party or anything." But he knew Casino wouldn't let it go. He'd chewed his match stick into pulp, and he spit it out. "I was thirteen."

He took a deep breath to clear the unwanted images from his head, and stood. "If we're done here, I'll take the first watch."

gg gg gg gg gg gg gg gg

He'd leaned one of the chairs against the door jam, trying to concentrate on the sound of the wind and the rain, and the steady, unsynchronized drips from the various leaks in the ceiling, but his mind kept returning to the images that appeared so often in his nightmares. Damn Casino! Just when he thought he'd left it all behind. But he knew that Casino had his nightmares to live with, too.

Garrison took the second watch, then he heard him wake Casino to take the final one. But after an hour, sleep still eluded him. He stood quietly and stepped to the door where Casino slouched in the chair. "I'll sit this one. You go back to sleep."

"No, I'm okay. You did your turn."

"I can't sleep. No use both of us being awake."

"If you say so." Casino relinquished the chair and returned to his spot next to the fire.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he thought it was close to dawn. The wind had subsided, and most of the rain hitting the roof was now just dripping off of the overhanging trees. In the dimness, he caught the movement in the far corner of the room, and heard the rustling as Denis crept toward the door.

As the boy reached him, he dropped the barrel of his rifle across the doorway. "Uh uh, kid. Don't make me cuff you to the chair."

"I have to pee, okay?"

Chief sighed and stood, and opening the door, motioned the boy through. Might as well take the opportunity.

"Everything okay, Chief?"

"Yeah, I got this, Warden."

The storm had headed east, and the sun was quickly brightening the sky where the clouds were parting. It was going to be a hot, sticky day.

As they walked back toward the house, Chief stayed a half pace behind Denis, watching him. He was painfully thin, and his shoulders drooped as he shuffled along. What kind of nightmares did this kid already have at the age of thirteen? Was his father among them? Not once had the boy shown even a flicker of grief. A lot of anger, but no grief. He could remember feeling that overwhelmingly vulnerable - it was all still there in his nightmares. But no longer in his day-to-day life.

"Why do you call him Warden?"

"He's the boss."

"Is Chief your real name?"

"You ask too many questions, kid."

"Can I throw your knife?"

"No."

"Come on, just once?"

If there was one thing that had helped him feel in control, less vulnerable, it had been the knife, and his skill with it, for so long the only things he'd been able to trust. He relented. He snapped the blade out, whipped it open, and spun it twice before holding it out, handle first, to Denis. "Okay, give it a try. Hit the side of the house."

They were a good 20 feet from the front door. Denis hefted the knife in his hand a few times, a smile lighting his face, then flung it overhand toward the house. It fell three feet short into the wet leaves.

"Go get it," Chief told him.

Denis brought it back to him. He set his rifle on the ground and positioned himself behind Denis, placing the knife in his hand and closing his thin fingers around it, showing him how to hold it. "Underhand this time."

Again the knife fell short of its target. Denis' shoulders drooped again as he went to retrieve it. "Show me," he asked.

So Chief demonstrated the best he could, trying to slow down the motion. But it was second nature. Muscle memory. His throw imbedded the blade into the wall with a resounding thunk. The kid sighed heavily. "Just takes practice. Try it again."

Denis pulled the blade from the wood with some effort and returned to Chief's side. He tried to hold the blade the way Chief had shown him, and put all his strength behind the throw. This time it bounced off the wall and fell to the ground...just as Garrison opened the door.

The knife thrown in his direction did not go unnoticed. "Everything alright out here?"

"Yep, we're good." Chief picked up his knife and snapped it back into its sheath, giving the Warden a quick smile. "Just a little target practice."

He knew that look in the Warden's eyes. He'd hear about this later.

"Let's get started. We should make Calais today."

gg gg gg gg gg gg gg gg

As they started out, Garrison had Casino take point, letting Chief walk with Denis. It was the first time he'd seen the boy move with any kind of purpose, holding his head up, and paying attention.

Chief picked up a couple of golf-ball sized rocks and handed one to Denis. "Hit that tree," he told him, indicating a large, ancient oak about ten feet away.

Denis hit it solidly with his first throw, and the pride lit up his face.

"Now hit the smaller one, behind it," Chief said, handing him the other rock.

He wasn't as successful the second time, and the small shoulders sank again.

"Keep practicin'."

Chief walked on, slinging his MP40 over his shoulder and picking up the pace. Denis almost had to run to catch up. But every now and then, the boy would find a suitable rock, and do his best to hit the farthest tree with it. Chief did the same, wordlessly demonstrating, hitting his target every time. Denis studied every move, and concentrated on duplicating them.

Although he would have liked to set a faster pace, Garrison let the two young men continue their game. He knew he'd never be able to convince Chief that he had more than just knife skills to teach Denis. But he could let Chief discover them for himself, the real talents that had kept him alive on the streets and in prison, and now in war - persistence, patience, self-reliance, loyalty, a strong survival instinct. And compassion. All the things he'd spent four years at West Point trying to learn, and some he still struggled with. They'd remained hidden in his young scout for too long.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

When they got closer to the outskirts of Calais, Garrison sneaked in alone to find Louis, one of his local contacts, and arranged for a safe house and some clothing. The muddy, stained SS uniforms they'd been wearing for days no longer served as much of a disguise. Their refuge was a second floor apartment near the city docks, complete with clean linen, and hot and cold running water. Louis' wife even provided a hot meal. As he'd gone with Louis to radio London to set up a submarine rendezvous, he'd tried to quell the rising feelings of unease. Once again, things were going too smoothly. If he let his guard down, disaster would raise its ugly head. But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy a comfortable night, and a full stomach. The sub would be waiting for them the next afternoon.

gg gg gg gg gg gg gg

As he tossed the supply duffle onto the small fishing boat, Garrison quickly glanced around the pier, trying to locate the others. He thought they'd been right behind him. But just Casino and Chief came around the corner of the warehouse shouldering their weapons, exchanging some amusing anecdote he couldn't hear.

"Where's the boy?"

"He split," Chief stated.

"He what?"

"I guess he had other things to do," Casino suggested.

"You let him go?"

"He don't belong in England, Warden," Casino told him. "He needs to be here."

"That was not your decision to make."

"It wasn't yours either."

He tried to contain his anger. He didn't have time for their insubordination now, they had to get out to the sub. "And if he goes straight back to the Germans? What he knows could cost a lot of lives, including ours."

"He's just a kid..."

"Exactly!"

Both men stood their ground, glaring at him, not giving an inch.

"Get on the boat. We'll discuss it later."

He didn't miss the brief smile Casino and Chief exchanged.

As soon as Chief cast off the line, the boat's motor roared to life, and it sped out into the harbor, leaving a tall wake. Garrison braced himself against the sudden surge, and heard the machine gun fire the instant before Chief fell heavily against him. He instinctively caught Chief around the waist and pulled him to the deck, back against the pilot house, as Casino ducked behind the gunwale and returned fire from the stern.

The deafening gunfire followed them into the harbor, and he flinched with each crack of a bullet against the side of the boat. But it stopped as suddenly as it started when the boat finally moved out of range. Surely there would be faster boats pursuing them at any minute. To his credit, the boat's captain increased speed, still heading out toward the Channel.

Next to him, Chief pushed against the deck, struggling to get to his knees, reaching for his gun. And Garrison saw the bloom of dark red spreading across the back of his shirt. "Chief, you're hit..."

"No, I'm okay..." Chief tried to get his feet under him, but his legs refused to support him.

"Stop it! Hold still." Garrison caught him as he collapsed backward. "Casino!" he shouted, picking up his MP40 and tossing it. "Make sure no one follows us."

Casino neatly caught the weapon, and the second one Garrison threw at him, then turned his attention back to covering their retreat.

Chief was trying to pull out of his grip, trying to get up, but Garrison held him firmly, his left arm clamped around his waist. With his other hand, he pulled Chief's bloody shirt away from the wound. It was high on his back, next to his right shoulder blade, still pulsing blood. A lot of blood. Trying to hold Chief steady against the pounding of the waves, he stripped out of his own shirt, folded it into a wad, and pressed it tightly against the wound. It began to soak up blood at an alarming rate.

He pressed harder, eliciting a weak, wet whimper, as Chief coughed, spraying blood and pink foam down the front of his shirt.

Garrison's heart stopped. This was not a simple shoulder wound.

"How bad?" Casino called from the stern.

"Bad." He tried to catch his breath, tried to think...

"We'll be at the sub soon."

The sub. They'd have a medic. If he could just stop the bleeding.

The boat sped past the breakwater and out into the Channel, crashing against larger waves, bucking in the rough surf that splashed over the gunwale. Garrison swallowed hard against the panic rising in this throat. He leaned against the bulwark and wrapped both arms around his young scout, pulling him tighter against his chest, trapping the makeshift compress between them. At the movement, Chief gave a small gasp, and coughed again, more blood filling his mouth. Garrison tried to sit up straighter, to give the undamaged lung more room to expand, and carefully wiped the trickle of red from the corner of Chief's mouth. As long as he could feel the weak heart beat under his hand, and the uneven rise and fall of his ragged breathing..."C'mon, Chief, stay with me, just...hang on..."

He had never done much praying. If there was a God, he wanted to believe that He wouldn't have allowed the hellish nightmare that was this war. But if there was a good and merciful God, and if he'd ever done anything worthy of grace or favor in his life, now was the time to call it in. He squeezed his eyes shut against the exhaustion and fear that threatened to spill out. _ Please, not another one. Please, God, not this one. _

**THE VIGIL**

The sun had set again. The small hospital room had grown dark, but Garrison couldn't make himself get up to turn on the lamp. He'd sent the others back to the barracks hours ago, with the promise that he'd call as soon as there was any change. They refused to go back to the mansion, so he'd arranged rooms for them in the Officers' Quarters nearby.

He knew he should find a bed somewhere and try to sleep, but he couldn't make himself do that either. He needed to be here when Chief woke up. So he shifted in the hard chair, trying to find a comfortable position that didn't press against a sore muscle, and continued to watch the steady rise and fall of Chief's breathing.

The doctor had been in earlier to change the dressing and check his vital signs. Finding that Chief was breathing easily on his own, he'd made the decision to discontinue the oxygen support, too. Now, with the mask gone, Chief looked peaceful. And very young.

He tried to picture the thirteen year old boy Chief had been, on his own and trying to survive in a reform school where dead children were just buried and forgotten. He hated the thought that such places ever existed. Still existed. And he tried to remember what he'd seen in this young man when they'd first met, less than a year ago. Sure, he'd read his file, knew all - or most - of his transgressions, knew his skills with a knife, his abilities with an engine, all the things that could be enumerated and written down. But there was something else unknowable, untouchable, that he'd sensed during that first meeting - an intelligence in his eyes that never missed a detail, a defiance in the set of his shoulders, a fierce survival instinct that took no prisoners and did not suffer fools. And he knew Chief had been sizing him up just as thoroughly. He wondered how he'd fared in Chief's assessment, what made him believe there was a chance, that a different kind of life was possible.

In the rare moments that he allowed himself to imagine a time when there was no war, he sometimes wondered what would become of each of these men, if they survived. Which ones would find redemption and be able to start fresh? Which ones would return to the old habits, the easy way out? He hoped that all of them would consider their hard-earned freedom something precious, and worth continuing to fight for. But in all honesty, he just didn't know. Of all of them, he could imagine Chief continuing, in some capacity, with the OSS. Of all of them, he was the only one with no network, no family, no support system on the outside. This team had become that for him. What would happen when there was no more team?

He'd let himself doze again, troubled by strange, disturbing dreams that took no substantial form, but left him with a veneer of sadness and dread. A faint sound brought him to full consciousness, and his eyes went immediately to the bed. Chief was watching him.

"You look like shit, Warden." His voice was soft and raspy, but a weak smile appeared.

Garrison pulled the chair closer to the bed. "You don't look so great yourself. How do you feel?"

"Hurts."

He rose to head for the door. "I'll call the nurse."

"No, I'm good. Water maybe."

Garrison poured a little from the pitcher into a glass and helped Chief raise up enough to take a few sips. Chief winced as he lowered him back to the pillow. "Sure you're okay?"

"For now. Casino?"

"He's fine. They were all here earlier. I made them go get some sleep."

"Screwed up, didn't we?"

"Do you remember much?"

"Most."

"We'll talk about it later. You need to rest."

Chief's eyes drifted close, giving in to the remaining effects of the drugs. Garrison leaned back in his chair, finally releasing the breath he felt like he'd been holding for days. "It's good to have you back, Chief."

**THE DEBRIEF**

He'd gotten so absorbed in his work that the sound of the front door opening startled him. He glanced at his watch. How had it gotten so late? Three sets of footsteps retreated wearily up the stairs, three voices complaining about the afternoon's workout, the heat, and Sergeant Major Rawlins. He knew where he'd find the fourth.

Chief sat near the bottom of the terrace steps, leaning back on his elbows, and rolling the small barbell back and forth on the ground with his foot. The doctor had given it to him, along with an exercise routine, to help rebuild damaged back and shoulder muscles, and he'd been diligent about the daily regimen.

For the last week, Chief had rejoined him on his morning runs. He'd initially tried to slow the pace while his scout regained his strength, but he hadn't been able to slack off for long. This morning was the first time he'd sprinted full speed for the terrace steps - their informal finish line - and lost. It was time.

Over the past several weeks, while Chief and Goniff healed, he had run a few easy missions to the continent, once taking Actor with him. Just simple things. They'd planted some false documents, and reestablished some frayed intelligence networks. The more difficult, dangerous missions had gone to other teams. Garrison knew he shouldn't take it personally - his team was not at its full strength. But now he was getting restless. He couldn't let them get too comfortable, too soft. The thick intelligence folder he'd just finished reading told him their next mission would require them to be at their best. It was past time.

Garrison stepped out onto the terrace. "Eight pounds?" he commented on the hand weight. "That's not too heavy?"

"A little." Chief picked up the weight, hefted it to his shoulder, and stood.

"Let's go upstairs."

Chief trailed behind him up the staircase and followed him into the large suite that was his team's barracks. Casino had just finished his shower. He had one towel wrapped around his waist, and with another he was rubbing the dampness out of his hair. Waiting their turns for the shower, Goniff sat cross-legged on his bunk, playing a game of solitaire, and Actor was in his usual chair, flipping through a newspaper. They all looked up as he and Chief entered.

"Hey, Warden!" Goniff greeted him cheerfully.

"Goniff, why don't you and Actor go help the Sergeant Major clean and stow the weapons."

"But I haven't had me shower yet..."

"The hot water will be here when you get back."

Actor stood and knowingly beckoned Goniff toward the door. Goniff shot a concerned glance at Chief and Casino, and patted Casino on the shoulder as he passed. "Don't worry, mate. We'll pick up the pieces later." He closed the door behind them as they left.

Casino quickly pulled on a clean set of fatigues. "What, no pricey Scotch this time?"

"Sit down."

Exchanging a wary glance with Chief, Casino slouched into one of the larger chairs at the table, leaning it back onto its hind legs. Chief pulled out another with his boot, spun it around, and sat, resting his arms across its back. Garrison took the chair between them.

"First of all, a lesson you should have learned months ago. No, years ago. Carelessness _will_ get you killed."

"Yeah, we know," Casino sighed, rolling his eyes. "Keep your weapons loaded, and silence is golden."

"Very good. Now, about Denis..."

Chief eye's came up quickly, with a sharp look of defiance, but Casino was the one who spoke, bringing his chair back down on four legs with a thump. "Wait just a sec, Warden. You had no right to drag him back here. He would have just shriveled up and died. Or worse."

He held up a hand for silence. "Let me finish. I just received a message from Louis. He told me what you two did. When did you arrange that?"

"While you were off radioing London," Casino admitted. "Turns out one of Louis's guys knew his dad. How 'bout that, huh? Small war, ain't it?" Casino lit a cigarette. "You know Denis had nothing to do with what happened in the harbor, right?"

"Now I do. Before, I wasn't so sure. How could you be?"

"He just wouldn't turned on us, that's all," Chief added.

"Louis said he's become a valuable set of eyes and ears for their cell. And he practices with the switchblade every chance he gets."

A smile lifted the corners of Chief's mouth. "It was old. Had rabbit guts in the hinge."

Casino grimaced.

"Look, I understand what you did and why. Denis needed guidance and a purpose. But why didn't you just tell me?"

"Yeah, right," Casino huffed. "You already had your West Point, tight-assed, First Lieutenant mind made up. No way we were gonna change that."

Garrison looked at each of his men, and decided that maybe he did need to rethink their role in the unit. They had well-honed instincts that he had come to rely on, and he needed to start trusting their gut as well as his own. These were definitely not the same men he'd first jumped with eight months ago. "Okay, point taken. Next time I promise to at least listen."

He stood and turned to leave. "When Actor and Goniff get cleaned up, meet me in the map room. Looks like we have a traitor to catch."

THE END

(for now)


End file.
